Shackled to the Past
by Rainack
Summary: Nick is investigating a case with hidden ties to his past. Please read and review. Rated T for some cussing, and discussion of molestation.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI, just the plot of this story.

A/N: This takes place season 9 or later.

Shackled to the Past

Chapter 1

"No, please!" the whispered plea from the nine year old boy elicited no response from the young woman. He tried to pull away, but she grabbed his upper arm, making him cry out quietly in pain.

"If you don't do what I tell you, I will hurt them!" she hissed menacingly in his ear.

The boy thought of his older brother and sisters, all obliviously asleep in their own rooms. Closing his eyes, he tried to lay still, let her do what she wanted. Tears forced their way through his closed eyelids.

It felt like hours later when she pulled away from him. Before she left, she stroked his cheek and whispered, "If you ever tell anyone, I'll come back and hurt you and your family."

Nick Stokes sat bolt upright in bed. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He rested his forehead against his knees.

It had been years since he'd dreamed about that night, but it still made him feel like a small helpless child again. He sat and sobbed, like he hadn't sobbed since he'd been buried alive. He felt he'd bounced back from that like he'd never truly bounced back from being molested at age nine by the last-minute baby sitter, Mary Ann Preston.

He hadn't gotten up the courage tell his parents what had happened until he was in college. And that had only really been because he'd been forced to.

The school had contacted his parents about an essay he'd written. Administration was concerned about the suicidal thoughts inferred throughout the paper.

His parents were told that Nick would be dropped from the college, if he didn't seek professional help.

He remembered that day. _Bill and Jillian Stokes had turned up at his dorm room door. Judge Stokes held the essay in his hands, his eyes looking imploringly at his son, as he quietly said, "Poncho?"_

_Nick had moved aside, letting his folks in so they could speak in private. "Cisco," he'd replied quietly, his gaze locked on the papers his father held._

"_Why would you think these things?" his mom asked, her eyes wide with fear for her youngest child._

_A shell shocked expression settling on his face, Nick knew it all had to come out._

"_Mary Ann Preston," Nick began._

"_Who?" his mom asked, confused._

"_Sh- she was that last-minute baby sitter," Nick stammered out, as tears began to press through tightly closed eyelids._

_Nick didn't think his mom's eyes could widen any more. He was wrong. When he finally looked at her, her eyes were even bigger than before._

"_Wh- what about her?" his father asked, not really sure he wanted an answer._

_The dam broke on Nick's tears, and they flowed as his body was wracked by heaving sobs._

_Jillian pulled Nick into her arms, her hands holding him tightly against her, as only a mother can._

_With the sobs, the whole story finally poured forth._

Judge Stokes had promised to bring the woman to justice. He'd issued an arrest warrant the very next day, but Mary Ann Preston had disappeared the previous year, so no one knew where she was.

Finally, the tears were spent. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep again.

Afternoon sunlight crept around the edges of the blackout curtains in his room, giving enough light that he could confidently move around the room without further illumination.

Feeling dirty in a way he hadn't in years, Nick went into the bathroom and turned the shower on so hot he was nearly scalded.

He tried to avoid his image in the mirror, knowing he wouldn't like what he saw.

Feeling the stubble on his face as he showered, Nick knew he'd have no choice but to confront that image. When he got out, he wiped a hand across the fogged up mirror, and grabbed the can of shave gel. He lathered up his face before looking up at the mirror.

His brown eyes were bloodshot and had dark circles under them from insufficient sleep. They held a look he had seen far too many times in the eyes of victims he'd questioned.

All of his co-workers thought he was so strong. Nick laughed ironically. If only they could see him now!

Shaking his head, he resolved to talk to his therapist about it at his next session. He'd been in therapy since college, and figured he'd probably be in therapy for the rest of his life. If not for the molestation, then for something or other relating to work.

Being held at gun point more than once and being buried alive would be enough to make anyone a little crazy. Nick figured he was probably just a bit worse off than some of his co-workers. At least he hadn't been blown up – he didn't really count the coffin exploding, since he wasn't injured by the blast – or beaten nearly to death the way his friend Greg Sanders had been.

After dressing, Nick went out to the kitchen to fix himself something to eat. For all the normal people in Vegas – those who held down nine to five jobs – this would be considered lunch time. For Nick, this was an early breakfast. He usually slept until five p.m., unless he had to be in court or had to take care of something around the house. This was early for him, and he knew he'd be dragging by the end of shift at six a.m. Twelve noon was just way too early to be up!

Once he'd eaten and cleaned his dishes, Nick glanced over at his cell phone. He contemplated checking for messages, but decided that if anything came up at the lab, they'd call the house phone if they couldn't get him on the cell.

He had a couple of on-going cases. One was a breaking and entering, which had started looking like a group of neighborhood punks looking to score. The other was a hit and run that had gone cold. The former would probably be solved that night, but he would probably be pulled from the latter and assigned a new case.

The ringing of the house phone startled Nick, pulling him out of his revery.

Ingrained habit made him say, "Stokes." when he picked up the phone.

"Hey, Nick. This is Catherine. I didn't wake you, did I?" Catherine sounded like the one who'd been awakened, her voice still heavy with sleep.

"No, I got up early to get some house work done," he lied, not wanting to go into why he was up at this ungodly hour with Catherine, even though she knew what had happened all those years ago. She was the only person at the lab who did.

"Good! Ecklie called. He needs someone to pull a double," she had to pause to yawn. "Lindsey's home with strep throat, so I can't. I told him I'd ask you."

"Okay, sure. No problem," Nick replied, groaning inwardly. It was days like this for which he slept all the extra time he could.

"Thanks, Nicky! I'll owe you one," Catherine thanked him before hanging up.

He clipped his phone and gun to his belt, and snatched up his keys. From the hook by the door, he grabbed his vest, and scooped his field kit up from the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Ecklie," Nick nodded his head at the head of the Las Vegas Crime Lab. "Catherine called and said you needed an extra hand. Here I am."

"Great! Everyone else is busy, and this just came in. Four nineteen at the Luxor," Ecklie held out a slip of paper.

Nick accepted it, "Male DB. I'm on it!" The slip didn't offer much information, just that the dead body of a young man had been found in one of the hotel rooms.

"Detective Bradley is already at the scene," Ecklie replied, already turning back to a stack of paperwork on his desk.

Shrugging, Nick turned and headed for the lab's main entrance. It always felt strange to be here when none of his regular co-workers were here. Being here with them, it was easy to consider the different labs as belonging to the night shift experts who worked in them, as if no one else ever worked in those labs. Now there were other people in those spaces. People he barely knew.

He still had a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that DNA wasn't Greg's anymore. For years, it had felt as if the DNA lab had belonged to the gregarious young man. Now Wendy Simms inhabited the space.

He laughed to himself as he slipped into the driver's seat of his department Denali. If ever a word had been created with a specific person in mind, it was gregarious. It fit Greg Sanders's wacky personality to a tee.

Not surprisingly, someone else had used the Denali while he'd been off. The seat had been pulled forward several inches, causing his knees to hit the steering wheel, until he managed to push the seat back. The radio station had been changed as well. Soft rock – thankfully set at a low volume – wafted from the speakers, until Nick punched the seek button a couple of times to get to his own preferred country station.

Nick didn't mind that he had to share the Denali with day and swing shifts – after all, the county couldn't afford vehicles for everyone on all shifts – he just wished they'd be courteous enough to push the seat back again. He was getting tired of bruised knees.

A memory came to him of Warrick Brown. After one too many bruises on his knees, he'd gone so far as to track down the person who'd driven the Denali last. He'd gone in with the idea of getting in the person's face about it, only to stop short because of the woman's pretty face. He'd, instead, politely asked her to be sure to move the seat back when she was done with the Denali. It had worked for a few days.

Warrick had been gone for a couple of years now, but memories of his best friend still had the power to cause a catch in his chest. Nick knew that what he'd gone through himself was nothing compared to what had happened to Warrick. Killed by a fellow law enforcement agent.

Nick had nearly shot Undersheriff McKeen. He had actually pulled the trigger, but had pulled his aim off just before he'd done it. McKeen had called him weak for not doing it. What the man didn't understand was that it had taken _all_ of Nick's very strong self-control to pull his aim off. There were few things that could make him lose his cool, killing his best friend was one of them.

After lunch traffic was heavier than what Nick was used to, but nothing he couldn't handle. As a cop, back in Texas, he'd been one of the top rated officers on the offensive driving course.

He put his training to use now, weaving in and out of traffic, earning the one fingered salute from several drivers. He ignored them. One driver thought to cut him off, so Nick flipped on his lights and siren for a moment. The guy used his brains and let Nick pass.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The lobby of the Luxor was crowded and thick with cigarette smoke. Slot machines provided a cacophony of light and sound, with the occasional whoops of joy thrown into the mix. Everyone here was oblivious to the drama playing out in another part of the hotel.

Approaching the check-in counter, Nick held his department I.D. up for the woman standing behind the counter, his field kit was held easily in his other hand. "Nick Stokes, Las Vegas Crime Lab. What room is the body in?"

The woman – whose name tag read Ann – paled, as if up to this point she'd been able to pretend there wasn't a dead person somewhere above her in the hotel. "Room four twenty-seven," she responded, after clearing her throat nervously. Sweat had sprung out on her forehead, and she put her hand to her chest as if she felt faint.

"You might want to sit down and put your head between your knees," Nick advised gently, before turning away towards the elevator, already dismissing Ann as unimportant to the case.

When the elevator opened on the fourth floor, Nick had his I.D. ready. An officer had been stationed by the elevators to keep the looky-loos away. The officer nodded to Nick, pointing the way to four twenty-seven as Nick stepped out of the elevator.

Nick returned the nod, and turned in the indicated direction.

The hallway was only slightly less opulent than the casino portion of the hotel. Flush mounted light fixtures kept the hallway illuminated without providing too much light. Muted wall colors bounced the light into the hallway, instead of pulling it in. The carpeting seemed to absorb the light, as well as most sound. Everything designed to keep the people staying in these rooms out in the casino, spending their money.

The hotel rooms were architectured so there were four doors near each other, two on each side of the hallway. Nick knew the rooms on the same side of the hallway would be mirror images of each other.

Room four twenty-seven was the exception to that rule, as it was at the end of the hallway, next to the door to the stairwell. Rooms like this were known as Murder Central because of their proximity to a quick escape route.

The room's door was propped open. Detective Bradley and a woman were standing several feet away from the open door. Crime scene tape was stretched across the door frame.

Knowing Bradley had the interview with the woman well in hand, Nick ducked under the crime scene tape and into the hotel room. He felt the woman's red rimmed eyes on his back as he entered the room, and heard a sob.

An involuntary, "Oh, no!" escaped Nick, as he took in the scene.

The body was indeed male, but Nick had assumed adult. He was wrong. The victim was a little boy, probably not into his teens yet. And he was naked.

Setting his kit down next to the bed, Nick opened it and retrieved a pair of gloves.

The swing shift medical examiner was just pulling her thermometer from the boy's abdomen, where she'd checked liver temperature.

"How long's he been dead, Doc?" Nick couldn't remember the woman's name, so he just called her the old stand bye, Doc.

Straightening, she replied, "Liver temp's ninety two degrees, so at least four to six hours. Bruising around his neck and petechial hemorrhaging suggests strangulation resulting in asphyxiation."

"Shit!" Nick let out an uncharacteristic oath, which caused the M.E. to look up at him, an eyebrow raised. "He's just a kid! Too young to die!"

The M.E. nodded as she directed her two assistants in lifting the body from the bed and into the body bag on the gurney.

Nick watched as the gurney was wheeled out, then turned to the room. There was a story here, he just had to read it.

Double checking his camera had fresh batteries and an empty memory card, Nick began snapping pictures of the room.

Snap: Video game console hooked up to the tv. Two controllers sitting beside an open game box. Both units off, but apparently recently used.

Snap: Two soda cans sitting on the coffee table in front of the TV. Both opened, one lying on its side, soda dripping to the floor. Signs that someone had been in the room with the boy.

Snap: The boy's clothes, lying in a discarded trail on the floor from the sofa to the bed. Shirt, then pants, finally underwear.

Nick's hands began to shake. Releasing his camera, so it hung from his neck by the strap, he clenched and unclenched his hands. He had the overwhelming urge to strike something, someone.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep calming breath, willing the thought of violence away. _Finish taking the pictures, Stokes_, he thought. _Lose it at home, not here!_

Raising his hands, he opened them palm down. They were steady. He had regained control.

Picking his camera back up, he continued with the pictures.

Snap: The bed. The sheets and blankets were in a tangled disarray. The boy's body had left a deep indentation in the bed. Too deep an indentation to be accounted for by the boy's weight alone. Something, or – probably more accurately – someone had lain on top of him.

He hadn't realized he'd been standing there, unmoving, unblinking, for several minutes, until Detective Bradley said, "He was only nine!"

"God, Bradley! Don't sneak up on a person like that! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" Nick said, as he turned away from the bed. His hands clenched on his camera hard in the effort to control his reflex to attack a perceived threat. Ever since his abduction, he reacted badly to being startled.

"I called your name twice, before coming in here. You were out of it, man!" Bradley replied, giving Nick a funny look.

"What!" Nick snapped, before trying a quieter, "What'd you find out?"

One eyebrow raised over an intense blue eye, Bradley consulted his notebook.

"The family was on vacation from Texas. Penny Andrews, her son, Tim Scott, and new husband, Brandon Andrews. Mrs. Andrews said she left Tim and her husband to have a 'boys day,' while she went down to the casino. When she came back, Tim was dead and Brandon was gone. I've already got an APB out on Brandon Andrews, and I've contacted Austin P.D. to search their home."

"Okay, I'm going to start processing. Let me know if our suspect turns up," Nick pulled the camera strap over his head and set the camera down beside his kit.

Something about the carpet next to the bed caught Nick's eye. Pulling his tactical flashlight from his vest, he twisted it on and knelt on the floor until his cheek was nearly touching the carpet.

A nearly imperceptible change in pile depth – only noticeable to someone trained to notice the most minute of details – had caught his eye. Reaching in his kit, he pulled out everything he'd need. Several minutes later, he had a clearly defined shoe print on the statically charged plastic.

Next he used his alternative light source, ALS, to examine the bed. The blue light brought invisible biological stains on the sheets to light. Some of the stains shown dully under the light, letting Nick know they were older than the ones that shown more brightly.

Each blanket and sheet were bagged and labeled separately, so Nick could examine them more closely at the lab. Once there, he would also take samples of each stain to send to DNA.

All that remained on the bed now was the fitted sheet. Setting the ALS aside, he pulled his flashlight back out again. Sweeping the flashlight slowly across the sheet, he looked for any hairs or fibers, anything that shouldn't have been there.

In the middle of the sheet, he discovered a small pool of a clear substance, no more than an inch in diameter. Poking a glove encased finger into the substance, he brought the finger to his nose and sniffed. There was no discernable odor, and he knew it couldn't be bodily fluids – they would be dry already. Rubbing his thumb across his fingertip, he decided the substance was oily.

Pulling the contaminated glove off inside out, he set it in his case for later disposal at the lab. After he'd pulled on a new glove, he used a swab to take a sample of the substance.

Near the oily pool, he discovered several hairs. Carefully tweezing one, Nick held it up, shining his flashlight on it. Specializing in hair and fiber analysis, he could quickly see that the dark hair was thick, and concluded it was probably pubic hair. Sealing the hairs into evidence envelopes, he set them aside and moved on, stripping the fitted sheet from the bed and placing it in an evidence bag.

Bringing the ALS back out, he looked over the mattress. As with all hotel mattresses, this one was covered in bodily fluids. Nick personally tried to avoid staying in hotels for this very reason. Pulling out a handful of swabs, he hoped he'd have enough in his kit to take samples from the bed and anywhere else he may discover possible DNA.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Nick pulled the Denali out of the Luxor parking garage. He was surprised to discover it was early evening. He'd gotten so wrapped up in making sure he didn't miss one shred of evidence, he hadn't realized how much time had passed.

His stomach suddenly let him know that his usual breakfast time had been many hours ago, with a loud rumble.

He was contemplating which drive through to hit when his phone rang.

Glancing at the caller I.D., he answered it with a, "Hey, Cath!"

"Nicky? You finished processing that scene yet? Ecklie said he sent you over there hours ago," Cath didn't sound angry, just concerned. She knew what cases involving kids did to Nick.

"Cath, I'm fine, just starved. I'm going to hit the drive through. You want anything?" he hoped she wouldn't pick up on how his accent had thickened, a clear sign that he was anything but fine.

"You're a sweetie! No, I don't want anything. I just ate a while ago. Some of us are just coming on shift, you know," she ribbed him jovially, though there was still a hint of concern in her voice. She wanted to tell him to take his time, but she knew that since the incident with his truck getting stolen with evidence inside, he wouldn't leave the Denali while it contained evidence.

"I'll be at the lab in a few," Nick said before flipping the phone closed.

The break room was deserted, when Nick was finally able to bring in his food half an hour later. He'd dropped off evidence still in need of processing in the layout room, then taken all of the swabs he'd collected to either trace or DNA.

Sinking wearily down on the imitation leather couch, Nick allowed his head to fall back against it for a moment.

His peace was short lived though. Greg Sanders, a huge grin on his face, walked into the room, empty coffee mug in hand.

Nick's baleful look wiped the smile away and elicited a, "Hey, man! You okay?"

Biting back what he really felt like saying, Nick mumbled, "Yeah, Greggo." To forestall any further discussion, he pulled the burger from the bag, unwrapped it, and took a huge bite.

Gesturing to the coffee pot, Greg said, "Blue Hawaiian here, if you want some." When he got no response, he filled his own mug, muttered, "I think Catherine's got a scene for me," and turned to leave.

Bolting down the rest of his food, knowing he would probably regret it later, Nick practically fled the break room, praying he wouldn't run into anyone else who would ask how he was or if he was okay. He was seriously getting tired of that.

His phone beeped, signaling a page. Pulling it out of its pouch, he glanced at the screen and saw it was from Doc Robbins. His eyebrows raised. He hadn't expected the boy's autopsy to be done yet.

Taking the elevator down to the morgue, he couldn't keep his foot from impatiently tapping the floor.

"Hey, Doc! This about Tim Scott?" he asked as the door swung closed behind him.

Looking around, Nick saw no sign of the boy's body. It hadn't been left to Doc Robbins, then.

Picking up his crutch in one hand and a folder in the other, Doc Robbins stood up from the computer he'd been working at. His glasses had slid halfway down his nose. Nick had always thought the man looked more like he should be a professor than a medical examiner.

"Dr. Shaw left this on my desk with a note to give it to you. It's her preliminary report on Tim Scott. She said she'd have her final report done by tomorrow night. Something about she felt you would want this one done ASAP." Doc Robbins relinquished the file to Nick's outstretched hand, noting the expression on Nick's face.

"Are you..." Doc Robbins started to ask, but Nick cut him off.

"Don't ask! I'm getting tired of people asking me if I'm okay!" Nick snapped, but didn't turn to leave.

"I was going to ask if you were taking an iron supplement. You look pale," Doc Robbins revised quickly.

Nick flushed furiously, "I- I'm sorry, Doc! It's been a long day!" Turning, he rushed out, leaving Doc Robbins staring a bit dumbfounded after him.

In the deserted hallway, Nick leaned up against the wall, letting his head fall back with a thump. He knew he had to pull himself together, or Catherine would yank him off the case. Blowing out a lung full of air, he tried to make some of his feelings go with it.

He still had nearly a full shift ahead of him, and there were a lot of things he needed to do in that time. Pushing away from the wall, he headed to his office to peruse the autopsy report in solitude. At least it would be solitude as long as Greg was truly out working a scene.

Nick didn't regret his decision to share his office – Grissom's old office – with Riley and Greg. And surprisingly he and Greg hadn't argued over how to use the extra space when Riley left. It was just that sometimes the younger CSI's constant talking could get on Nick's nerves.

Nick had been raised in a traditional Texan household, where men didn't really talk about their feelings – though Nick put forth effort in that area with his therapist – where Greg had been raised the opposite, so always felt the need to share everything that went on in his head.

The office was blessedly empty, so Nick settled back in his chair, propped his feet up on his desk and opened the autopsy file.

Along with the typed preliminary report, there were several hand written notes, as thought the M.E. had tried to anticipate any questions Nick might have.

Cause of death had been confirmed as asphyxia due to manual strangulation. A photo of the bruises – clearly made by a large hand – around the boy's neck were included in the file. Studying the image, he suspected he could get an idea of hand size from it.

One of the hand written notes confirmed his suspicions of sexual abuse. _Mr. Stokes, there was evidence of massive tearing around the anal opening, so I collected an SAE kit. There was evidence of semen. I've already sent the samples down to DNA. Scarring in the opening suggests this has been ongoing for some time._

The report also mentioned bruises around the boy's wrists. The included picture showed the bruises clearly. Nick concluded these bruises had been made by the same hands that made the bruises on the neck.

Nick had no problems imagining what this poor kid had been through: hands held over his head as he was brutally penetrated. Then that large hand closing over his throat, cutting off his air.

Shuddering, Nick closed the file and tossed it on his desk. Taking a deep breath, he expelled it forcefully, willing it to take his anger and helplessness with it.

Firmly in control again, Nick prioritized his next steps.

First, he needed to go over Penny Andrews's statement, which Detective Bradley had promised to e-mail him. Then, he'd need to go talk to Penny Andrews himself. Next he'd have to finish processing everything he'd collected. After that, he'd go over to trace, find out what had been discovered there. He'd have a day or two to wait on DNA results.

Hopefully the Austin crime lab would have some new evidence for him by the next day.

Logging on to his computer, Nick checked his inbox. As promised, Bradley's interview notes were there.

After reading through the statement, Nick glanced at his watch. It was nearly nine o'clock, early enough that Penny Andrews should still be up – if she found herself able to sleep. The Luxor had provided her with a new room, and anything else she might require, for the duration of the investigation.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"Mrs. Andrews, I'm Nick Stokes, and this is Detective Jim Brass, from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Would it be okay if we come in and ask you a few more questions?" Nick asked the woman peering out at him through the gap in the door. He held up his I.D. so she could see it.

Sniffling, a tear tracing a path down her cheek, she mumbled, "Yeah, sure."

She closed the door for a moment and Nick could hear her fumbling with the door stop. He winced when he heard it make contact with the inside of the door harder than she probably meant it to.

The door opened again, this time wide enough for the two men to enter.

She gestured to the sofa, taking a position on the arm chair opposite it in the livingroom of the suite.

"Have you," her voice hitched as a new sob threatened, "Have you found Brandon?"

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry. We're still looking," Brass responded quietly.

"Ma'am, I need to ask you some questions about Brandon," Nick began once Brass had finished speaking.

"O- Okay," her voice was so quiet, it was nearly inaudible.

"How long have you been married?" Nick started with an ice breaker question, a question designed to put the person being questioned more at ease.

"A few months. We've known each other for a few years, though."

"How did he get along with your son?"

"They got along great the first couple months. Brandon spent so much more time with Tim than his own dad did. The last couple months, though, Tim's behavior has been just awful. Back talking both Brandon and me, refusin' to do his chores, even his grades were slippin' in school."

"Did you ever suspect Brandon might be molesting Tim?" the question came out more harshly than Nick had meant it to.

Penny Andrews tensed, her arms crossing under her breasts. "What? No, never!"

Standing up in a rush, she gestured to the door. "I want you out, now!"

Raising both hands in an effort to calm the woman and show he meant no harm, Nick tried to apologize, "Ma'am, I'm sorry. It's just standard procedure in these cases..." he trailed off, seeing he wasn't going to get anywhere with her now. "I'm sorry! We'll go."

In the hallway, Brass rounded on the younger man, "What the _hell_ was that all about? Of all people, you know you're not supposed to lose your objectivity!"

Mumbling something about being "A long day," Nick fled back to the Denali, grateful they'd driven separate vehicles.

Slamming his fists down on the steering wheel hard enough to hurt, Nick let out an angry yell at the top of his lungs. Then he looked around sheepishly to see if anyone in the parking garage had noticed. It seemed no one had.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The layout room was empty when Nick arrived back at the lab. It was just after ten, and the rest of his shift seemed to stretch in front of him to eternity. His lack of sleep seemed to be trying to catch up to him.

Setting the bags of unprocessed evidence to one side on the lighted table, Nick pulled on a pair of exam gloves.

Starting with the sheets, he began to meticulously exam them. Using the ALS and a marker, he outlined every biological stain he could find. He then took a swab from each one, being careful to note which stain each swab came from. He also found some fibers, which he photographed and carefully collected.

When he'd finished with the sheets, he bagged them back up. He pulled the bags containing the soda cans out next. They were both Pepsi cans, so Nick chose one and carefully cut the bag open. Both cans had already been empty when he'd collected them, just a few drops remaining in the bottom of them.

Taking a swab, Nick carefully stuck it into the can he held. Absorbing as much of the remaining liquid as he could, he pulled the swab out, clicked the lid shut over it, and placed it in its box. He would do the same thing to the second can and send both samples to tox. Tox would be able to tell him whether either soda contained anything it shouldn't, such as drugs.

Picking up another swab, Nick rubbed it across the mouth of the can, picking up DNA for processing.

Finally, he pulled out a fingerprinting brush and a jar of powder. After removing the lid from the powder, he tapped the brush into it. Lightly brushing the powder around the can, Nick discovered a set of fingerprints. He photoed them, then lifted them with print tape.

The second soda can went the same way as the first.

Nick had become so engrossed in his work, he didn't hear the layout room door open. The hand on his shoulder made him jump, and several of the pictures he'd been holding went skidding across the table.

Whirling around, Nick's fist came up reflexively, ready to hit his assailant. This had become an ingrained reaction since he'd been kidnaped and buried alive several years ago.

Releasing Nick's shoulder and taking a hasty step back, Catherine's hands went up in a no harm meant gesture. "Take it easy, Nicky! It's just me."

Looking from his boss to his upraised fist sheepishly, Nick mumbled, "Sorry." His fist dropped to his side and he willed it opened. Clearing his throat, he managed, "What's up, Cath?"

"You've been in here all night, Nick. I think it's time you head home and get some sleep," Catherine responded, one eyebrow raised at the way Nick's hand now had a death grip on the seam of his jeans.

"Uh, yeah. Sure. Just let me get this..."

Catherine didn't let him finish, "No! Now! I'll take care of this." Pausing to take a breath, she went on in a gentler tone, "There's really nothing else you can do tonight. Go home, for God's sake sleep. Come back to it tomorrow night with a fresh perspective."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Nick slept fitfully, unable to shake the thought that he was missing something. A vital clue that would blow the case wide open.

When he did sleep, his dreams were plagued by images of the dead boy. In some of them, his own nine year old face took the place of the dead boy's.

After a particularly nasty one left him sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, drenched in sweat, Nick decided to take an over the counter sleep aid. He knew Catherine would pull him from the case, if he came to work in worse condition than when he left. He needed to sleep!

Several hours later, he had to resist the urge to throw the alarm clock against the wall, especially when he couldn't seem to get it to shut up.

When the sound stopped on its own a moment later, and wakefulness finally crept into Nick's brain, it dawned on him that it wasn't the clock, but his phone. He'd forgotten to turn it off before hitting the sack.

Finally looking at the clock to see what time it was, Nick was surprised to find it was three forty-five. Just minutes before his alarm was set to go off.

Now his phone was signaling a new voice mail. Picking it up, he dialed the voice mail number, punching in his pass code when the option came up.

"Nick, this is Wendy. I thought you'd want to know. I've had some interesting results come up in CODIS for some of your DNA samples," Nick thought Wendy might have said something more, but he was already closing his phone and scrambling out of bed.

He was dressed and at the lab in thirty minutes.

Practically running through the halls, Nick said a hasty hi to Catherine and Ray, who were conferring in the hallway outside of DNA.

"Wendy! What have you got?" Nick tried to control his voice, knowing he already looked a bit on the unstable side from his mad dash through the building.

Wendy flashed Nick a smile, turned to the computer and brought up the results she'd called about.

"This is Brandon Andrews's exemplar sample you pulled from his toothbrush," Wendy began, gesturing at the results as she spoke. "I ran it through CODIS, and got back this list!" clicking a button, Wendy showed Nick the list of cases the DNA had matched. "These were all unknown semen samples collected from seven to nine year olds who'd been molested, and strangled," she paused a moment, "It gets worse. The oldest case is from ninety-four. That suggests there may have been more before that time, since no one collected DNA before that."

Feeling faint, Nick grabbed hold of the table to steady himself. "Oh, my God! He killed eight other little boys!"

Wendy pushed a chair behind Nick's legs and urged him to sit. "Take it easy, Nick. I was shocked, too," Wendy said. Nick was grateful she hadn't asked if he was okay.

"Have you checked to see what NCIC has on these cases?" Nick asked, once he'd regained control.

"Actually, it's all printing right now on the other computer," Wendy replied.

A new fervor lighting his eyes, Nick said a quick, "Thanks! I'll be back for it in a bit," and sprinted out the door to Brass's office.

Brass was just finishing up a phone call, when Nick burst into his office.

"Hey, Nick. Where's the fire?"

"Brass, I need Brandon Andrews's wife, Penny Andrews brought in. I think she knows more than she's letting on."

"Okay, I'll ask her to come in," Brass replied, picking up the phone again. When he set it down again a few minutes later, he said, "She'll be here in ten to fifteen minutes.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

When Brass showed Penny Andrews into the interrogation room twenty minutes later, Nick was already there, looking at the information NCIC had kicked back about the eight murders Brandon Andrews's DNA had linked him to.

The woman's eyes narrowed when she saw Nick, but she went ahead and sat down across from him.

"Mrs. Andrews," Nick began, "are you sure there's no possibility Brandon was molesting Tim?" he kept his voice as even as possible.

"I have already answered that question," she replied curtly. She uncertainly eyed the papers Nick held.

Placing the pages, one by one, in front of Penny Andrews, Nick said, "Brandon's DNA was positively identified and linked to the murders of these eight boys. He raped and strangled eight innocent little boys!"

Fear entered Penny Andrews's eyes. "No. That's not possible. He told me about his childhood – what went on in that house – he swore to me he would never to what had been done to him," she was nearly babbling now, desperately trying to convince herself that this was some kind of mistake.

"What happened to him as a child?" Nick prompted.

"He was molested, for years, by his older stepsister, Mary Ann Preston."

All of the blood drained from Nick's face, "Wh- what did you say his stepsister's name was?"

"Mary Ann Preston," she repeated, looking at Nick oddly, as if he'd sprouted a third eye.

Barely managing an, "Excuse me!" Nick stood and stumbled out the door.

Brass managed to get to the hallway in time to see Nick bolting in the direction of the men's room.

Following the younger man, Brass entered the bathroom to hear Nick wretching in one of the stalls.

"Nicky?" Brass asked quietly when the wretching had subsided.

"Please, don't ask if I'm okay, Brass," was Nick's equally quiet response.

"Wouldn't dream of it, since you're not. What's wrong?"

"Brass, I need you to issue an arrest warrant for Mary Ann Preston," Nick responded.

"Based on what? Hearsay from a woman grieving for the loss of her son?"

Nick emerged from the bathroom stall he'd taken refuge in. His eyes met Brass's, and held them. "No, Brass. Based on the victim's statement."

"I'm confused. Who are we going to get a victim's statement from? Brandon Andrews is in the wind."

"Me!" was Nick's response.

Brass finally noticed the haunted look in the younger man's brown eyes.

Stunned, Brass said, "What?"

"I- I was nine, Brass. She was a last-minute baby sitter. My older brother and sisters were all in their rooms, asleep. She told me that if I made any noise or tried to..." Nick's eyes were flooding with tears, his voice catching.

Brass's face had taken on a skeptical look, "After all these years," he started.

Nick cut him off with an angry, "How many more kids could she have done this to! She's got to be out there, somewhere! People don't just disappear off the face of the Earth! Maybe, maybe if we catch her, and bring her in, others she hurt will be willing to come forward." His voice dropping to a near whisper, Nick finished with, "We've got to try!"

"Okay. It's okay! I'll get the warrant out. We'll find her," Brass put his arm around Nick's shoulders, awkwardly trying to comfort the other man.

Brass's cell went off, and he checked the caller I.D. before stepping away to take the call, "Brass!"

By the time Brass got off the phone, Nick had regained his composure.

"Park rangers up by Lake Mead found Brandon Andrews's car. It had been left running, but ran out of gas. There was a hose stuck into the tail pipe and in the window. He's dead. There was a suicide note."

Brass knew he shouldn't have said anything nearly as soon as he'd said it. Nick tried to push past him.

Grabbing Nick's arm, he pulled Nick up short. "No! Catherine and Greg are handling this. You're off the case, now! Go home! No, better yet, I'm going to have Sara take you home!"

Nick's eyes lit up with anger, but it was soon replaced by resignation, and he nodded mutely.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The next night, Nick sat in the break room, waiting for shift to start. He'd already snagged a cup of Greg's Blue Hawaiian coffee, and was taking careful sips of the steaming liquid.

"Hey, Nicky!" Catherine's quiet voice greeted him as she walked in the door. She held an evidence bag containing a sheet of paper.

"Cath," Nick tried to keep his voice steady. He suspected he knew what the paper was.

Catherine sat down beside Nick on the sofa, so she was facing him. She kept the paper in the bag, turned so Nick couldn't see it. "Brass told me what happened yesterday. That had to be difficult, finding out you weren't the only one molested by that monster."

Nick nodded, gazing down into the black vastness of the coffee, almost wishing he could disappear into it.

"Brass suggested I let you see this, and I agreed with him," Catherine went on, handing Nick the suicide note Brandon Andrews had written before taking his own life.

Dear Penny, and I guess, the police,

I am so sorry! I never meant for any of this to happen. I loved Tim, like he was my own kid.

It was a compulsion. I had to do it! I couldn't stop! I kept saying I would never do it again, but I always broke that promise to myself.

I guess after all those years of what Mary Ann did to me, something inside of me broke.

After the first two little boys I killed, I thought that if I killed her, then maybe I'd be able to stop. I killed Mary Ann and made sure her body would never be found. I still couldn't stop, though.

I never meant to hurt anyone. Now I won't be able to hurt anyone else!

The note was signed by Brandon Andrews. There was a set of coordinates written under the signature.

Nick raised his eyebrows questioningly at Catherine.

"We think that's where he disposed of Mary Ann's body. It's in Texas, so we sent the Texas Rangers out to the coordinates. They called a while ago to say they'd found a body there. They're pretty sure it's hers.

Nick released the breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding. A sob escaped with it.

Catherine pulled Nick into her arms, allowing him to cry on her shoulder.

When his tears had been spent, Nick pulled away, wiping his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"Are you..." Catherine seemed to think twice about asking the question.

Nick nodded at her, and said, "Go ahead and ask."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah! Yeah, I am!" and for the first time in a very long time, Nick Stokes meant it.


End file.
